Category Archives: Memoirs
“My name is Katy and I’m a zookeeper from Alabama” I say with my best southern drawl. Across from me was the thirteenth guy from Wall Street that I had already declared to be a douche. He leaned into the table ready with three minutes of questions before the bell would ring signaling that our date was over. The next guy sits down and I introduce myself as “Katy, the Gemologist from Egypt.” The next guy met “Katy, a Political Adviser for the Tea Party.” The girl sitting next to me couldn’t help but stifle a laugh after every introduction, as we had discussed and determined together that speed dating was the absolute worst. 50 dates in two hours had crept by and I had only circled three names. One of them I was sure was gay. He and I would later go on to be in a relationship for six months.
I have approached my journey for love as if it was a fifth grade science fair project. I have not ruled out any opportunity or venue as a possible meeting place. I have gathered intel from my friends on how they successfully snared in a mate. I have listened to the advice of my friends on how I’m doing it all wrong. Each guy has brought me a lesson, if I am in the mood to learn it. I throw a few variables into the mix in case my control group continues to strike out. I, by no means, have drawn out a conclusion but I have had a great time on singles cruises and meetups. My hypothesis has always been: try anything.
I recently read an article on how subcultures values are revealed by the first introductory questions asked when meeting a person for the first time. In the southern states of the U.S. it can be quite common to meet someone for the first time by saying “hello, how’s your mother?” In Northern California, one might jump to ask what someone does for a living. In NYC, people are immediately interested in what judgments can be made by the neighborhood they reside in. During my speed dating experience, I was able to test this theory. When I immediately opened with asking what people do for a living, these New Yorkers became slightly weary about what my intentions were. Asking New Yorkers “how’s your mother” threw the entire conversation into an immediate dose of awkward, which made it my favorite leading question. I also found that, although extremely entertaining to me, follow up questions requesting a complete list of their medications and police record were sure to send them into fits of nervous sweats across from me. With 50 first dates in three minutes or less, you can really try just about any approach. I found my favorite question was to ask them what they did on their last birthday. It was original, light-hearted and showed me what they value as a good time. When the question is flipped back on me, I watch their faces as I tell them about myself taking body shots off of a drag queen at a gay bar. This story has proven to be a valuable litmus test for whether this guy can hang or not
Through my experimentation, I have also found that I attract the most men when I’m in costume. Lucky for me, I’m often in costume. I was brandishing a rubber chicken while struggling to drink my wine wearing redneck joke buck teeth, when Bam!…guys are buying drinks. It’s possible they are attracted to the confidence I’m wearing, but I also have my suspicions that I am the freaks Pied Piper. Testing this theory even further, I decided to drag my friends out to a singles BINGO event in my neighborhood after attending the Mermaid Parade in Coney Island. I was dressed up as Ursula from The Little Mermaid, but my makeup was inspired by the drag queen Divine. The bartender immediately took notice of our group as I gathered my tentacles to sit down. Scanning the room, we all came up short for any potential suitors, so I gave myself a weave-pat and focused my energy on the game. It wasn’t long before I noticed the severe case of side-eye that the moderator was giving my group. Within a few short moments, the mermaid at my table had drawn up a classic diagonal BINGO win. A table of boys next to us gave us a congratulatory high five as the moderator declared it to be a mistrial. What immediately transpired was a verbal altercation between the moderator, the mermaid and Ursula over the rules of BINGO. “BINGO can only be won if it is vertical and goes through the middle” she said as she stamped her feet. “In what country?” I would ask with a lifetime of refined sass technique. “Well, maybe if you guys weren’t so drunk, you would know the rules!” She had us there. We were drunk. Drunk and now riddled with injustice. Standing up for our rights as knowing and consenting BINGO participants led us to
leaving/being kicked out of the event. We had a series of high fives on our way to the bar as we shouted “Shenanigans!” several times. The night didn’t end as a bust, as a few of my friends actually met some cute guys as I put out a small fire caused by the s’mores kit on the bar. “It’s the costumes!!!” I say, pointing a stick with a burning marshmallow on the end of it at my friends. I squish the gooey mess into my prepared sandwich and mumble to myself “It’s always the costumes.”
A few weeks later, it was theme week for our Bocce Ball league. My team had chosen to dress up as characters from Clue. I was assigned to be Colonel Mustard with the wrench. As we got to the beer garden where we play our Bocce games, I noticed several people dressed up and wearing name tags. “Is this a reunion, or something?” I ask the closest person as my fake mustache drips beer on my chin. “No, its a Match.com event.” I immediately turned around and walked up to the table, grabbed a name tag and wrote “Colonel Mustard” on it. I made a quick pit stop by the table to eat some of their food before I zoomed in on my first targeted couple. “Excuse me, I’ve heard reports of illegal fire arms over here. Sir, I’m gonna need to see your guns!” I would stare at the man in the couple until he would show me his muscles, then I replied “Very well, carry on” and walked away only to repeat the very same dialogue to several other couples. I offered no explanation for my outfit or my line of questioning. I found my roommate, Miss Scarlett, roaming the party saying she was “looking for a rich man.” As we walked back to our Bocce game, we discussed the uncomfortable looks I was given when I rolled up on people holding a wrench in my hand. Not to stray from my theory, two different men told me that they loved my mustache and that I had a nice “cake”. One even offered to buy me a drink. For a point of clarification, these were straight men. I was dressed up… as a man.
I’m still working out the details of my dating thesis, but I have determined one route of meeting potential men as in desperate need of retirement…my online dating profiles. I found myself, as my friend KL calls it, “suffering a case of low standards” and I also found it distracting. I’m trying to go back to basics and meet people in person. Dating events and speed dating offer me to many opportunities to make trouble, but I won’t completely rule them out in the future if I happen upon one. The beauty of New York City is that most of my friends are in the same warped boat, each one of us encouraging the other not to throw in the towel. As I deleted each of my profiles, I said goodbye to the memories and failed romances. I lit my candles, initiated a seance and had a serious sit-down chat with my guardian angels, “In case there was any confusion, I have compiled a list of the qualities I’m looking for which I will read out loud now. Number 1: No weird body hair; Number 2: A touch of gay; Number 3: diplomatic immunity….”
He looked up at me with an expression of exhaustion mixed with intrigue. A slightly crooked smile crept across the face of my doctor as he nervously clicked his pen. The medical assistant next to me was ready to write down my complaints. She had access to the chart that held all of the intimate details of my medical history that I had forgotten about, and for that I was jealous of her. I remembered the first time I met this doctor, and giggled out loud as I imagined the physicians note that read “23 year old seen today to receive a tetanus shot post cat bite.” Knowing me well, he takes a deep breath to remind me that the clock was ticking. “I know what you are thinking, but I am not here today to ask again for you to spay me. I need an air cast, some sleeping pills and a Hep A shot.” He put his pen down on the table and stared at me over his bifocals. After a full examination, he agreed with my request as he told me that I was “a piece of work”, that he “loved our little chats” and not to “get arrested in Bangkok”. With a swollen arm, a sprained ankle and a hot prescription for Ambien, I limped in my air cast to the nearest pharmacy.
For almost 20 years, I have struggled with chronic, severe insomnia. I tried everything from acupuncture to mystical healers, yet still sleep seemed to escape me. I was prepping for my trip to Asia and figured it was as good of a time as any to score some narcotics. My plan was to time my intake perfectly so I could wake up on Hong Kong time ready to go. This particular trip was a huge treat from my best friend Kendall, who at the time had been given two round trip tickets from her job as a flight attendant. We chose our destination the same way we choose all of our destinations…by random selection. We both had friends living in Hong Kong at the time and we chose Bangkok for our second destination while Kendall and I were eating some mediocre Pad Thai. Kendall looked at me as we paid our bill and whispered “I know where we can get the real deal. Also, elephants.” Our reservations were secured immediately.
During our layover in Detroit, we drank our traditional margaritas and drunk dialed my sister. My sister said she would meet us in Bangkok as we checked-in at our gate. I laughed off her plans to meet us, never believing that she would secure tickets for a next day flight across the world, which is exactly what she did. Kendall and I fought over the power outlet for a last minute iPhone charge as we hear our names called like Bingo winners. We had been upgraded to First Class, which prompted us to have a make-shift dance party. Immediately upon embarking the plane, I was assigned a pod one isle over from Kendall and was gifted a fantastic gay flight attendant who became my instant friend with benefits. The benefit, of course, was consistent flowing of champagne. The first half of my flight was amazingly luxe and I was able to catch up on movies I had been dying to watch. Halfway through Water For Elephants I took two Ambien and gave one to Kendall. Somewhere after my babbling to Kendall about wanting a baby elephant for a pet and my ruining the ending of her movie, Kendall and I fell asleep. Or so I thought. What actually happened was later revealed to me while waiting in line at China customs.
Kendall awoke to a vision of me crouching over her and stroking her legs. “Hey girrrrrrrl! Whatcha doin’?” I asked. It was dark in the cabin, but not dark enough for Kendall to observe the pair of sunglasses I was wearing. She flipped the question back to me to which I exclaimed “everyone on the plane is so nice!” and took off skipping towards the front of the plane. Kendall wiped the fog from her eyes and decided she needed to do damage control. Taking the opportunity to use the laboratory, she wondered how much trouble I could be in. Assuming the worst, she bravely exited the compact room only to be greeted by several uniformed faces and a round of laughter. “Your friend is so funny! She’s been in the galley for over an hour doing a stand up routine and messing with the jump seat! We had her do some announcements and everything!” Kendall initiated a well-rehearsed round of apologies while she tried in vain to get a visual on what trouble I was getting into at that current moment. “No,no, it’s ok. She’s really, really funny.” they said trying to comfort her. Kendall smiled and walked off only to find me sleeping soundly in my seat still wearing my sunglasses.
Hours later I woke up to a familiar flight attendant asking me gently to raise my seatback in preparation for landing. I felt slightly delirious, but miraculously well rested. Standing in the aisle, I shot a quick smile at Kendall across the plane. Looking back at me were several amused faces as a slight jab came at me from behind. “Girl, this is for you when you get to your hotel.” I looked down to see that I had been gifted a bottle of champagne from the crew. I only had seconds to thank my new best friend before we were herded off the plane. As I limped on my still swollen ankle towards Kendall, I proudly showed her my bubbly trophy. “I freaking love gay men! Look what he gave me!” This was when Kendall pointed to the line for customs and filled me in on my mile high performance while she looked around nervously for signs that I would be arrested.
Months later, it was the dead of an oppressive New York City summer back in the days when I would refuse the luxury of an air conditioner. The apartment I was living in at the time had a “backyard” that only could be accessed through the fire escape out of my bedroom window. In reality, this space was a concrete slab covered with overgrown ramshackle weeds, but it was outdoors and it was mine. Kendall was spending the night on one of her many layovers in New York. I took an ambien, said goodnight and went to bed. Kendall reports that a delirious version of myself came out of my room glossy eyed to ask if the backyard was “terra firma”. She laughed to herself and said she did in fact believe that the backyard was “firm earth”. I walked back to my bedroom while I mumbled under my breath “good, I just bought a pool.”
Hours went by that next morning until I checked my email. It was to my absolute horror that I discovered several receipts and shipping notifications from Amazon. Not only had I ordered a legit above ground pool, but also pool chemicals, pool covers, a ground cover and two inflatable mermaid floats. My sober mind was equally impressed and terrified of what this would do to my wallet. I called Kendall to ask her to fill in the blanks of my blackout. “I’m never taking Ambien again! Can you believe I bought a pool? Can you believe I know Latin?” The direction of our conversation quickly changed to all of our imagined future pool parties and what themes were possible.
A week later my pool was delivered and assembled. This did not happen without significant rigging on my part. There was not an outdoor water or power source. One trip to the hardware store bought me a coiled hose and a faucet converter. Refusing the help of my roommate, I fed the hose to my kitchen faucet and around my building. As the water filled very slowly, I blew with all my might to fill the outer layer of this pool with air. As I grew increasingly dizzy, I was distracted by visions of my future backyard. I envisioned the fire pit and my inevitable new hobbies of fire dancing and most likely hoola hooping. I saw the lounges that would be strategically placed to get just the right amount of sun. I saw where I would become sporty and do yoga everyday. Over in the corner would be my zen garden and herbs. I thought of the envy on my friends faces when I invited them to come over to go swimming. When the pool was half way full, I impatiently sat inside of it with my mermaids. I visually placed that at least 6 of my friends could sit in it at once and one floating cooler. My summer was gonna be awesome!
Two days after that, I woke up to see that someone had unplugged my pool and let it drain. A subsequent text from my landlord simply read: “No pools. There are laws about this, Armstrong.” Packing up my pool, I found my dreams deflating with each mermaid lost to a shallow Tupperware grave. Inside, I sat with my prescription bottle in my hand as I declared myself as unfit to take any more pills. As I flushed my meds, I thought about the text from my landlord as if his words echoed into my skull as a message from the beyond. “There are laws about this, Armstrong” became my previously missing True North for my weak moral compass. My North was pointing my ass back to the doctor for a script of something that is not likely to get me in trouble with the Coast Guard or a Federal Air Marshall. My doctor shook his head as he wrote “bought a pool on Ambien” in my chart and referred me to a “specialist”. As I was walking out of his office, I looked at my new prescriptions. One read “Melatonin” in small print. The other, in all caps, read “WRITE A BOOK”, which would mark the first time I have followed doctor’s orders.
I became Colombian when I was 29 years old. It was something that happened suddenly, unexpectedly.
After my 27th birthday, I flew to San Diego to spend time with Kendall and Adam. I had thrown together a bag full of clothes and left my problems in New York. My heart had been recently broken and I was in crisis. Being around Kendall and Adam was the best medicine I could buy, so I cashed in my airline points and hopped across the country. On our first night, we all fell into our familiar rapport and laughed about our crazy lives. We couldn’t believe that we were 27. It seemed so old, something that crept up on us and was unwelcome. “My God, we’re practically 30!” This theme took on a life of it’s own. After several bottles of wine were emptied, we started compiling our “30 before 30” bucket list. My list included typical adventure goals and some wacky items like “date an Eskimo”. When I came back to New York, I tucked the list away in my underwear drawer and forgot about it until it caught my eye six months before my 30th birthday.
Prominent, at the top of my list, “travel abroad by yourself” was written. I took this as communication from my past self and it set me into a panic to book a trip as soon as possible. I chose Cartagena, Colombia because it jumped off the page at me and I could afford the airfare. My tickets were purchased practically sight unseen. Almost immediately, I felt a wave of anxiety come over my body. What was I thinking? My first trip alone, and I choose Colombia?! My fears doubled as I started typing into the Google search bar “is Colombia…” and the first thing that came up was “safe”.
Against the wishes of everyone in my life, I got on that plane. A few hours later, I set my feet on a new continent. It became obvious to me how uncommon it was for Americans to travel here, rarer still as a solo white female. English was not something the locals were accustomed to speaking. My days were spent primarily alone, wandering through cobblestone passages curtained by bougainvillea. The historic part of Cartagena was surrounded by a wall that was built to protect the city from pirates. I spent hours each day in solitude on top of that wall looking for pirate ships and thinking about my life. It’s amazing how you start to listen to yourself when you are outside of your comfort zone with seagulls as your only companions. I was hopping from hostel to hostel throughout the area when I received notification that I had been booked at an airbnb place on an island. I felt I had had my fill of salsa dancing and of asking everyone I met if they had children, cats or if their cats were on fire. The host of this airbnb told me to meet him “behind the hospital on the beach” and to ask for “el mono”. Other than this, I had no idea what island I was going to or what was in store for me.
I felt that my limited Spanish had prepared me to experience embarrassment as I walked up and down the beach asking for “the monkey” at 8am. I slung my big backpack onto the sand and was starting to plan my backup move if he didn’t appear. Secretly, I was also praying that he would emerge out of the ocean, hand extended, with a monkey on his shoulder. A shadow interrupted my thoughts as I turned around to meet a very handsome man face to face. “Are you Katy?” I felt my voice shake as I replied “yes, you speak English? Are you the monkey I am looking for?” He picked up my bag, threw it over his shoulder and laughed as he led me to a small metal boat.
I was so happy to have someone to talk to that I immediately started grilling him about all of my questions I had written down about Colombia. “Do they always leave the eyes on the fish when they put it on your plate” was at the top of my list. I also needed to know why he was known as a monkey. He proceeded to tell me about how I was the first American to come stay with him and that “el mono” is a slang word for “blonde” in that part of Colombia. I was listening to everything he had to say in-between my alternating internal dialogue of “will I die?” and “is he single?”.
I learn that we are approaching Isla Tierrabomba as a crowd rushes the boat offering to carry my bag. El Mono separates the crowd with a series of high fives and hand shakes as he leads the way towards a steep hill. I gaze around the island as we hike and a sharp round of first-world guilt starts to seize my body. The poverty of this island stood in stark contrast to the cosmopolitan skyline of Cartagena, which was only a short seven minute boat ride away. All around me were children running around barefoot on sharp rocks. El Mono had been trying to teach the children English, so a chorus of “nice to meet you! How are you?” came as each child showed up to welcome me. El Mono’s property was beautiful. I had my own cabana and hot tub. I was the only guest on that day, so I immediately sat in the hammock to take everything in. I was panicked that I had not come prepared for that day. I was wishing that I had brought something for the kids; I could have stocked up on clothes and toys. I watched as three little girls played cards on the street while I held back tears. It wasn’t because I felt bad for these people, but because I knew that this was the reason Colombia had called to me. I knew deep inside that I was exactly where I was supposed to be, which was very unusual for me. I needed to get some serious perspective on what’s important in my life, and watching donkeys carry up containers of water for peoples homes provided me with that insight. I am insignificant if I don’t make a difference in this world. I knew that I would be back to this place one day and I stitched the moment into my heart.
A little while later, I put on my bathing suit to head to the beach. A group of young boys had offered to take me, so I packed some cash to buy them something to drink. Over the next few hours the boys made fun of my Spanish and they took turns flipping through the pictures on my iPhone. I became completely mortified as my language skills were unable to explain away the weirdness that is my life. After the third consecutive picture of me being motor boated by a drag queen came up, I confiscated my phone and suggested that we go swimming. We spent hours doing handstands and showing each other our own special tricks under water. In the water, we all spoke the same language. “Can you do this?” I would ask using the universal body language for “come at me, bitch.” I twirled under water three times and came up like Ariel crashing upon the rocks. This has always been my winning signature move, but I awarded the boys points for their adorable attempts to mimic me flipping my hair. We dried off on the beach where I taught them how to toast with Coke bottles. The beach was completely empty, save for ourselves and the lady we bought the Coke from. I had to laugh to myself as I finally had the perfect set up for a story about the time I did Coke in Colombia. “Cheers!” echoed about a hundred times into the jungle behind us before I told them I was ready to head back to the property.
El Mono was busy purchasing a donkey with burn injuries when we arrived. He gathered the kids around to teach them a lesson about kindness to animals. He told them that he would nurse this donkey back to health with the help of the kids. He told them that animals are to be respected, and in turn they will respect you by carrying your family’s water up the hill. He turned to explain to me that he had also rescued the three dogs he had running around the property. All of his pets had been abused. He went on to tell me that people treated animals like pests on this island. One of his neighbors could not afford a door for their house, and when this unlucky donkey had wandered through their front door, they threw cooking oil on it to get it out. I stroked the nose of the donkey and looked into its beautiful brown eyes that were broken through no fault of its own. El Mono then took me to show me his house of rabbits. “The Iguanas on this island are almost extinct because people were hunting them for food. I breed rabbits, who are free to come and go as they please. They make lots of babies very fast, so my neighbors sometimes catch them for a healthy dinner. If the rabbits leave my property, they are free for anyone. Now, the Iguanas are left alone and I can teach the kids about animals.” I had to catch my breath a few times as I felt I was having an out-of-body experience. This man was my age, and he was quickly becoming my hero. The simplicity in his mission made me so proud that I could witness these spontaneous lessons, even as a mere spectator.
El Mono continued to show me things on his property. Every corner had something that impressed me, from rain barrels to personal touches made by the children. I found a big pile of stone statues that were going to make an underwater zoo for the kids to create reef so they can learn about marine ecology. Next to them was a big pile of plastic bottles. “We have one man who is a garbage man for the whole island. We don’t have recycling. These families take five years to build a house because they can only afford one wall per year. The kids bring me bottles, packed tight with trash, and I give them a toy. Today I will teach the kids how to build things for free out of the trash we have around the island. We are making a school and the first wall will go up today using these bottles as bricks.” I told him to immediately put me to work, that I wanted to help while I was there. We strung together the bottles onto chicken wire, then poured concrete. I felt a sense of camaraderie with the kids with each bottle. Since it was the first wall, we tried and failed together. We tried again and succeed. The children participated in every step until it was time for hydration by way of coconuts and an afternoon nap in the grass. I returned to my hammock and to my thoughts.
I couldn’t believe my luck with this unplanned adventure. I was experiencing so many emotions that it was hard to keep up with myself. I wanted to travel alone so I could get to know myself, to really depend on myself and to be myself. Who am I when I’m being authentic, when the laughter stops and the disco ball is turned off? That afternoon I realized that the lesson I needed to learn on this island was also a simple one. If I had my own property, literal or figurative, what would I do with it? Would I make it all about me and my extravagances? Or, would I dedicate part of it towards bettering my community? What lessons could be taught? El Mono was doing things that really spoke to me. I just felt this overwhelming sense of gratitude that my life had led me here, even for a day.
Before I knew it, the lights were twinkling across the waters as Cartagena brought me back to earth. Close to fifty children were showing up to watch a movie on El Monos deck. While “El Gato con Botas” played on a projector, I had my hair braided by a little girl. When the movie was over, El Mono started playing music videos and cleared away the chairs for an all out dance party. It was shocking to see children under ten having a twerk off to win dollar bills, but I wasn’t one to judge as I have pictures of me pole dancing as a child. I made it rain a little. It was for the kids.
My time on Tierrabomba lasted exactly one day, but I think about it almost every day. My friend, KL, even visited El Mono and has her own story to tell. At 29, a “monkey” taught me how to be Colombian. It is by some poetic luck that my passport expired when I turned 30. Closing out my 20’s passport was my stamp from Colombia, which felt like the end of a chapter in my life. I flipped through the used pages and reflected on all the places I had been. 4 continents, 10 countries, but only 1 “monkey”.
WATCH: El Mono’s first Recycling Event for the entire Island
VISIT: Take a trip and make a difference